Follow These Unfaltering Steps
by mapplepie
Summary: Frisk is stuck in a place called the Underground, occupied by creatures unknown. But Frisk is full of inner strength, adaptable and determined (and life can't be any worse than the place left behind in the world above), so Frisk will march unfalteringly onwards towards the future, regardless. Blind!Frisk.


_a/n: Don't expect much. I just fell in love with the idea of Blind!Frisk after reading ennji-undertale's Blind!Frisk AU comic on tumblr. I couldn't help writing this bit, but honestly I have nothing planned, and updating this fic is low priority. It's more of a writing exercise than anything, to close my eyes and imagine the sensations as Frisk stumbles blindly through the Underground._

* * *

As consciousness slowly breaks though, the first thing that hits you is the smell of damp soil. Your brain is still hazy, but the scent is strong, subconsciously calling memories to your mind. It's reminiscent of those spring nights you spent out in your back garden, knee-deep in mud.

Except it's been a long time since you've done any gardening, and definitely not the night before.

You're currently on your back, and the floor is unusually springy. Your hands reach beneath your fallen form, running across the ground. There's a feel of velvety pedals and rigid stems – flowers, you decide confidently.

…you're in a meadow of flowers?

Around the vicinity, there is an echoing sound of dripping. The noise wraps around you, like you are trapped in an encompassing cavern with no escape. It makes you feels so small and helpless, and the chilly air, slowly seeping into your bones, doesn't help in the least.

…definitely _not_ a meadow, then.

You push to sit up, hesitant to wander about.

What happened to lead you to this place?

You remember Mt. Ebott. You remember how the chirping of various birds on the mountain filled the air, unstopping and loud (but nothing unbearable like the vicious words of _theirs_ that haunt you from behind). You remember the rocky road beneath you, stumbling your tiny feet periodically (but predictable and forgiving, unlike _their_ calloused hands that once caused the same). You remember pulling a smile on your face as you continued forward on your own (because the alternative was crying, and you refused to let _them_ see your weaknesses).

It was so similar, yet different, and unexpectedly beautiful and freeing - until the vine caught your ankles.

Then, there was wind rushing wildly on your face as you fell. You expected ground beneath you. You expected to skin your knees, to get dirt stuck under your nails, and to ruin your only sweater. But instead there was only the sensation of falling down, down, down, with no end.

For a split second you thought you'd fallen off the edge of the world.

But you hadn't, had you?

(If you had, would that have made life easier? – no, stay determined. You will be the last person to lose belief in yourself.)

And now here you are. You take a deep breath as you crawl cautiously along the ground, crooks and bumps scratching skin as your hand skids across it all. With a bump, it hits something hard and out-of-place.

You pick it up.

You heart calms, cradling the familiar stick. It's a branch, really, knobby and short, but it's the perfect length for you. You'd found it early on on the mountain, once you'd tired of splinters as you dragged your freezing hands across tree barks and thorny bushes. It's probably nothing pretty to look at, but it's a study little thing and it does its job perfectly. Nothing else matters.

Deep within your soul, you pull up the determination to solider on forwards. You won't waste it sitting here and fearing away for eternity. It's no different than the unfamiliar path of the Mountain, you tell yourself. It's an adventure. (You'd already promised to make the most of your life.)

You push yourself to your feet, and head in an arbitrary direction. Your branch hops along the floor with a _tap, tap, tap,_ that echoes in rhythm with the dripping water. Onwards and onwards you go, until you're halted by a wall to the face. It feels damp, you decide, when you place your palm on it, fingers curling onto the grooves of the stony body.

It doesn't help you figure out where you've landed, but the feeling of walls reassure you, now that you no longer feel like you're stranded in the middle of nowhere. You use it as your guide, hand trailing along as you follow the perimeter.

The wall curves for a while, then flattens up eerily straight, as if leading you to down a long corridor. You're suddenly struck with an ominous feeling, but perhaps you are just paranoid in this odd new environment.

"Howdy!"

You startle.

"I'm Flowey. Flowey the Flower!" the voice continues, "What'cha doing all the way over there?"

Life!

Relief blooms in your heart. You take a chance and fumble forwards towards them, without the help of the wall. It's fine, you promise, gripping your branch tightly. You're brave, you're strong. You can do this.

"Hmm, you're new to the Underground, aren'tcha? Golly you must be so confused."

… _Underground?_

You have to wonder if you _truly_ hadn't fallen off the edge of the world. Flowey speaks as though they're somewhere different. "Someone ought to teach you how things work around here!" he says.

He sounds so chipper and happy and helpful. It should reassure you, it should liberate you from this ache of worry. But there's something about it – there's something about that voice that makes your stomach churn. (There's something about it that reminds you of _them,_ and you will never forget how _they_ were like.)

"Ready? Here we go!" You catch the end of Flowey words.

Here we go? Here what go-

And before your thoughts even finish, you feel this pull deep, deep within your chest. Your fingers curl, your breath shortens. You can't describe the feeling – it's not physical, it's not pain… it's like a disconnection between your body and soul. It's disconcerting, but you quickly stabilise (you've learnt quickly in life to adapt fast because no one waits for you).

Flowey is talking about your soul now, cheerful as ever. "Your soul starts off weak, but can grow strong if you gain a lot of LV. What's LV stand for? Why, LOVE, of course! Don't worry, I'll share some with you."

It makes you feel bad for doubting him. You smile amicably at him, feeling a change in the air. You presume it's the discharge of those ' _friendliness pellets'_ of his. "Catch as many as you can," he says, and you hope he isn't offended when you only stand still.

It hurts so much more when you get hit because you least expect it.

You doubted him. And then you doubted yourself for doubting him. Why are you such a fool?

Flowey's voice warps into something vicious. "You idiot! In this world, it's kill or be killed!"

The air feels oppressive. You're trapped, and you know it. You're certain there're more 'friendliness pellets' coming your way, and no means for you to dodge. You're done. You're dead. (You want to accept it, but you also can't. Your soul is burning in pain, but also in the strongest of determination.)

There is a yelp.

A rush of heat flows across you.

"What a terrible creature, torturing such a poor, innocent youth." Your heart stutters and your head swivels towards the new voice in reflex – you never heard her come in. "Ah, do not be afraid, my child. I am Toriel, caretaker of the ruins," Toriel sooths, and despite yourself, you find your body relaxing. Her voice is patient as she explains your situation, giving you space to come into terms you are nowhere near home. There is the scent of pastry and warmth in the air around her that comforts you like an engulfing embrace. It's reassuring in ways you never knew were possible. (It's everything you've always wanted – everything that _they_ never gave you.)

"The ruins are full of puzzles. One must solve them to move from room to room," Toriel continues gently, "I will guild you through the catacombs."

You move forwards. You want to accept. You try to accept, but fear grips you, and your next step falters into a halt.

It scares you, her love and unconditional kindness. It's such a foreign thing. (How could she be so full of it when _they_ had none to spare for someone like you?)

You want to trust, but look where trust got you last time.

"What is wrong, dear child?" Toriel only asks, ignorant to the hateful thoughts swirling in your mind.

Guilt plagues you, and you try to assuage it by offering a smile.

"Oh, don't be afraid, child. I will be beside you the whole journey," Toriel promises, your forced expression fooling nobody. But she doesn't guess that she's the cause of your panic, and you poor heart only constricts more at her tender tone.

This isn't like you. You're they type to give everyone a chance, and though you've been wronged before, it'd never stopped you from believing. It's this belief that keeps your optimism and spirit strong. Perhaps it's the shock from being dropped into such a foreign place that's the cause of this, but you need to stay true to yourself. You'll adapt (You always do).

You shift your stick into your right hand, reaching out with your other. You still for a second as it hits something soft and unexpected. Strands tickle your palms as you wiggle your fingers – fur?

Perhaps you should be more shock at the inhuman characteristic, but hadn't Flowey introduced himself as a flower, after all?

A giggle erupts from your throat.

"Do you like my fur, dear?" Toriel asks patiently, and you nod in agreement.

"It's warm," you say, and it really is, but it's more than in just temperature. It's the familiarity of cozy blankets, and dog kisses, and something about it just makes you feel so safe.

You tiny hands close around hers. You can hear the smile in her voice when she says, "Let's go home."

The journey there is full of twists and turns, and presumably puzzles, but you partook in none of those. At one point Toriel tries to let go, tries to impart independence on you, tries to let you experience their traditions, but you refuse. You hold tightly, unyieldingly, on her soft furry hand.

You hear her sigh exasperatedly, and then give in as she continues forward. She doesn't force you, and you're eternally grateful. There are many things you can't do, and though time and time again you've desperately tried through determination and pain (would _they_ have liked you better if you could? You were doing your best already, didn't that count for anything?), it was nice not to have to stumble through things. It was nice to have someone to rely on.

In time, the two of you cross through a squeaky door. The warmth hits you as you step forwards – it smells like Toriel, of evenings gathered in the kitchen baking, of cozy nights in blankets in front of the fireplace. The uneven gravel beneath your feet is replaced by smooth, even flooring.

You shuffle inside slowly, savouring the change.

Toriel turns, her hands pushing your back gently to direct you rightward. You move cautiously, almost hitting wood as you stumble into a closed door. It's a room. It has a musty sort of smell, like it'd been in storage for a long, long time. You can only suspect it's a guest room, as Toriel murmurs worriedly how tiring the trip was, gingerly tucking you into the bed within.

"Have a nice rest, child," she says.

"Frisk," you reply softly, "Call me Frisk." And she does, and you can't help the smile blossoming on your face. It's been much too long since you've heard your name called so tenderly before. You hope it was the right thing to do to open your heart to Toriel, because it's too late to regret now.

The room is foreign, the place is foreign, the creature that Toriel is is foreign, but somehow none of that makes you anxious as you fall almost immediately into slumber.

When you wake up next, your brain scrambles to remember.

You jolt upwards, feeling blankets fall off your body. You swing your hand wildly across the lumpy mattress, breath tense until you hit something roughly cylindrical and solid. It's still here. Good. You were almost afraid Toriel would discard your branch while you slept ( _they_ would never have a problem throwing away your things, especially if you seemed attached).

You crawl out of bed, dangling your feet off the edge to test the height before you make a small jump.

Toriel's been baking, you think as you feel yourself truly waking up. You register the smell of buttery sweetness permeating densely in the room. Too strong a smell, really; was the door open?

You swing the branch before you, shuffling dainty steps. You don't expect it to hit something solid with a _clink_.

With a thought, you carefully drop to your knees. The landing is soft, because you knew there was a rug beneath, soft and plush and wrapping your feet in a hug of their own.

When you reach your hand out, it prods into something warm and sticky. It should've startled you, but it doesn't because the smell is quite telling.

Instead you stick your tiny fingers in your mouth and savour the flavour. It's rich and creamy with aftertaste of nose tingling cinnamon spice. It's good, it's better than anything you've had in a while, it's butterscotch cinnamon pie.

You hadn't expected much when Toriel had asked for your preference in flavours during the winding journey to her house; you'd thought she was only making casual conversation. But clearly she'd always had you on her mind, prepping the ingredients the moment she shooed you off to bed. Your heart feels full to the brink as you store the pie away, continuing your search for the door.

It's a whole new world outside your room. You don't know which direction to head. You vaguely recall coming in from the right side, so that's a start, you suppose.

Scared of scratching Toriel's floorboards, because destruction is no way to thank her gentle gestures, you tuck away your branch as you follow the wall. It drops down into stairs suddenly, a couple turns in, and you almost trip down it, only to catch yourself on the railings.

You hover by the foot, indecisive. Toriel never told you anywhere was off limits, but she never told you you could explore, either. You start to step away, only to stop. You're just a child. You're curious (and living with _them_ has taught you that ignorance doesn't help survival).

So, you descend the staircase, in slow, firm steps.

You end up what you can only assume to be a long, empty corridor. Every step you take echoes dauntingly into the beyond. You shake, uncertain if it's from your nerves or the temperature. It's cold down here, as bad as the ruins you left behind with Toriel… or perhaps even worse.

If the fall from Mt. Ebott was much further than expected, this was the equivalent of that in the horizontal axis. You contemplate turning around a few times along the way because the corridor seems to have no end, but stubbornness and resolute drives you onwards.

You don't know how long you've been walking, but you're soon halted by a harsh voice.

"Frisk, child, what are you doing here?" It's Toriel, and she doesn't sound happy.

Your instinct is to apologise, to hunch your shoulders to make yourself smaller than you already are. But then you remember it's Toriel, and you remember how she's treated you so far (you realise she's nothing like _them_ ).

Though, you do drop your head in guilt, as you enquire where you are.

"The doorway before you leads out of the Ruins into the Underground. You came here because you wish to go home, did you not?" she finally says, talking as though she's seen this all before, only saying the inevitable. You didn't come here with that in mind, but you hold your mouth, curious. "However, it is dangerous out there. Be a good child and turn around."

Her voice is strained, and you want to comfort her as like she had done for you, but the Toriel you thought you knew is now shrouded in mystery and lies – she _never_ even mentioned it was possible to leave the Underground previously. In fact, it'd seemed like she had always been alluding to the idea that you were stuck there forever.

You take a step forward, and Toriel seems to panic, words spilling out even faster. She tells you about the barrier the humans trapped them behind, of the other children who had fallen down, of their journeys out to the Underground, and their eventual death by the hands of King Asgore.

She finishes with a, "I'm only trying to protect you, please go back to your room," and you only hear sincerity this time.

But.

You don't like it. You've had a lifetime of people trying to control you, trying to tell you what you can or cannot do, judging you by your appearance alone. You're stronger than they ever give you credit for ( _they_ tried to control you, to take advantage of you, and the memory leave a bitter taste in your mouth). Never again.

You know Toriel isn't like them. She truly cares, but you can't stomach it.

Even if it was never your intention to come here, you refuse to turn around now.

"If you want to go, you will have to go through me," Toriel declares to your stubbornness.

You can hear her shifting in place.

Memories of the pain Flowey put you through – the pull of your heart, the jolting strong pellets – flash across your mind, along with the ashy smell of smoke from the attack Toriel had used to save you. Only now, it will be used against you.

You can't help but tremble, but still, you stand your ground.

It starts.

Your body recalls the sensation, and it's smoother this time, the disjointed feeling between body and soul. The temperature of the cave increases all the while, from freezing to something smothering hot.

Unlike the time with Flowey, you expect the pain this time, but it doesn't hurt any less. Hotness licks at your skin, and that's the only warning you get before it _burns_. You're being doused in flames, and its crackling surrounds your senses. It traps you, not that you dare to move, least you disorient yourself and do more harm. You sway in spot, knees weak and quivering, but you resolutely clutch your branch tighter in a defensive cross before your tiny body.

Your motion likely catches Toriel's attention.

"I see you brought the stick with you," Toriel says, when there is a short lull to the attacks. "It takes more than a stick to beat off us monsters," she continues, trying too hard to sound ferocious, when all you can hear is strained acting.

And she's wrong. You never had the intention of hurting her with it to begin with.

"It's not-" you start, but then the rest of her sentence catches up to you and correcting her on it is the least of your priorities. "You're not a monster," you insist. And it's the truth. _They_ were monsters. Toriel is not.

You try to think of something more to say, but nothing comes to mind.

And the attack commences once more.

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing the tears to stay welled up in place. The sounds of your laboured breath echoes in the cavern. Were you not you, you would've probably screamed out in pain by now. You don't. You've learnt to keep it in (Crying out only made _them_ enjoy your suffering more, and the habit is reflexive by now).

"What are you doing?" Toriel cries. "What are you proving this way?"

Who's hurting more, you wonder, you or Toriel? There is an essay of words in the tone of her voice. Though the burns throb with every second, the onslaughts of attacks are lessening. In the back of your throat, the taste of ash lingers.

"Fight me or leave. Why are you making this so difficult?"

You can do neither. How can you attack this dear woman when doing so would break her heart, yet how can you leave when doing so would mean you would forever be restricted to this small house?

"I can't even save a single child," her voice suddenly crumbles, "I understand. The ruins are not large, you would not be happy here." There is a pause, then reluctantly, she finishes, "If you truly wish to leave the ruins, I will step aside."

Her voice is small – smaller and frailer than you have ever heard it. She always sounded so unwavering these past two days, now she's nothing but a shell of herself. You think back on her words. How many children has she seen walking to their deaths, while she can do nothing more but stare helplessly at their backs? She's just afraid you'll join a coffin with the rest of them (but you're more determined than they were, you bet. If _they_ managed to teach you anything, it was that determination will get you far.)

Weakly, you shuffle forwards until you hit a face full of fur.

Toriel's hands latch onto you immediately, pulling you in tight. You slide your arms around her, savoring this precious moment. A part of you wants to stay here with her, but as loving as she is, if today taught you anything, it's that her protectiveness is smothering. Just the possibility of your death past this exit caused her to be worked up to this extent.

If she found out the _true_ purpose of that branch in your hand, what would happen then? She called it a weapon, but little does she know…

If she knew, perhaps she wouldn't let you go. If she knew, perhaps she wouldn't treat you like she did now. If she knew, perhaps she would sequester you away like a fragile doll, or perhaps she would lose her love and throw you away like the defect you were ( _they_ were proof of that).

You don't want that.

It's best you leave now.

With great difficulty, you extract yourself from Toriel's embrace.

There is a loud groaning sound, and then a blast of chilling air - the exit is open. In the beyond, the wind is howling and the cold threatens to cut deep into your bones. You take a deep breath.

"Thank you," you whisper to Toriel in the silence of the cavern, and then you step forwards to the unknown, determination burning in your soul, branch bouncing beside you with your every step.

* * *

 _a/n: No one realises Frisk is blind because, I dunno, hereditary blindness is not a thing in the Underground, or something. And Frisk will never tell. Though, considering Sans is the outlier of everything, well..._


End file.
